I'll keep a little tavern
   Below the high hill's crest,
 Wherein all grey-eyed people
   May sit them down and rest.

There shall be plates a-plenty,
    And mugs to melt the chill
 Of all the grey-eyed people
    Who happen up the hill.

There sound will sleep the traveller,
    And dream his journey's end,
 But I will rouse at midnight
    The falling fire to tend.

Aye, 'tis a curious fancy --
    But all the good I know
 Was taught me out of two grey eyes
    A long time ago.